Chapter 40 Blood and Boundaries
Chapter forty
Blood and Boundaries
Zane
Lena's in there with him, has been for three hours. Through the small window in the ICU door, I can see her holding his hand while machines breathe for him. Izzy's with her, the two of them bracketing Miguel like guardian angels who've forgotten they can't actually perform miracles.
"This is my fault." The words taste like rust and regret.
Tommy doesn't contradict me. Can't. We both know the truce made Miguel look weak. Weak men don't survive in our world. Someone—still don't know who—put three bullets in him to prove that point.
Ghost sits across from me, watching with eyes that miss nothing. "War's not over. Just paused while everyone reloads."
"War's done," I say, but even I don't believe it.
"Tell that to whoever shot him. Tell that to crews circling our territory like vultures." He leans forward, voice dropping. "You're thinking with your dick instead of your head. Gonna get us all killed for pussy."
Tommy tenses beside me, ready to intervene, but I wave him off. Ghost isn't wrong. I'm compromised. Have been since the first time Lena walked into my apartment, belly full of my kid and eyes full of fear.
The ICU door opens. Lena emerges, Izzy supporting her even though it looks like Lena's the one doing the holding up. Blood on her scrubs—Miguel's blood. Eyes swollen from crying. Twenty-eight weeks pregnant and looking like she's carrying the weight of two cities, not just our son.
"He's stable," she says to the room, voice professionally neutral despite the devastation written in every line of her body. "Three bullets. One nicked his liver, two hit muscle. He'll live, but recovery will be long."
Carlito stands, and I see him wrestling with relief and rage. "Who?"
"Does it matter?" Lena's exhaustion makes her honest. "If not them, someone else. This is what we are. What we do."
Her eyes find mine across the room. "No more war. Please. He almost died because of us."
"No," I correct, standing. "He almost died because someone wanted him dead. That's not on us."
"Isn't it?" She laughs, but it's all broken glass and no humor. "Our love started this. Our baby made him weak. Our—"
"Enough." Izzy cuts her off, switches to rapid Spanish that I don't understand but recognize as comfort and command mixed together. Then in English: "You need rest. The baby needs calm."
As they're leaving, Carlito approaches me. "If Miguel dies, truce dies with him."
"He's not dying."
"If he does."
I meet his eyes, let him see the truth there. "If he dies, I'll personally deliver whoever did this. In pieces."
It's not enough, but it's something.
Three days later, Lena calls. "I need to tell you something. Can you meet me?"
"Where?"
"Downtown. Grounded Coffee. An hour?"
"I'll be there."
She's already there when I arrive, tucked into the back corner of one of those gentrified places that serves cortados and judgment in equal measure.
The exposed brick and Edison bulbs feel like they're trying too hard, but Lena fits here somehow—caught between two worlds, belonging fully to neither.
She's got herbal tea she's not drinking, hands wrapped around the mug like she needs the warmth more than the beverage.
"I went to a job interview yesterday," she says as soon as I sit down. "Community clinic. For after the baby."
The words land like punches I should have seen coming. "Okay."
"You didn't know?"
"You asked me not to watch."
Her eyes snap to mine, searching for lies. "You really didn't know?"
"No."
The silence stretches between us, taut with disbelief and something that might be hope. She reaches across the table—not all the way, just enough that her fingertips brush mine.
"They didn't hire me. Said my 'associations' made me too high-risk."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you?"
"Yes." And I am. Watching her lose pieces of herself because of me is its own kind of torture.
"I need something," she says, pulling her hand back. "I've been thinking about what you said last week. About me and the baby being safer at the clubhouse."
I wait, not wanting to push.
"If I move there—if—I need my own space."
My chest tightens. "Okay."
"A room that locks. Only I have the key. No one else. Not even you."
Everything in me rebels against it. The need to know, to control, to protect rises like bile. But I see her watching, waiting for me to fail this test.
"Okay."
"You hate it."
"Yes."
"But you'll do it?"
"Yes."
She studies me for a long moment. The baby moves between us, visible through her shirt, our son making his presence known.
"I'm not saying yes," she finally says. "Just... considering."
It's not enough. It's everything.
That evening, the DA calls a meeting. Local prosecution, not feds, but still enough weight to crush us all. Tommy and I sit across from a woman who looks like she eats broken men for breakfast and picks her teeth with their bones.
"The war between your clubs destroyed three businesses, put seven people in the hospital, and turned my city into a battlefield.
" She slides photos across the table—burned buildings, blood on pavement, everything we've done laid out like evidence at judgment.
"Someone takes responsibility, or I prosecute everyone. "
"What kind of time we talking?" Tommy asks.
"Three to five for arson. Out in eighteen months with good behavior."
I start to speak, but Tommy cuts me off. "I did it. All of it. Zane tried to stop me, but I was out of control. Grief, you know? Makes a man do stupid things."
"Tommy—"
"It's done." He looks at me, and I see peace there. Acceptance. "You have a family now. I don't. This is my call."
The DA studies us, knowing it's bullshit but not caring as long as someone pays. "Mr. Cooper, you're prepared to plead guilty to these charges?"
"Yes."
"You understand you're looking at three to five years, possibly eighteen months with good behavior?"
"Yes."
She closes the file. "Report for processing Monday morning. Don't make me hunt you down."
After she leaves, I grab Tommy's shoulder. "You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do. You'd do the same for me."
"I'll take care of everything while you're gone. Commissary, protection, whatever you need."
"I know, brother. Take care of your family. That's all I need."
My phone buzzes. Lena:
Board of Nursing summons. They know about the clinic.
Because of course they fucking do. In our world, blood never stops calling for blood, even when you're trying to build something better from the wreckage.